


Four Times Niva Hated Everyone and Everything (And One Time She Didn't)

by mayasilver



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 08:09:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13119648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayasilver/pseuds/mayasilver
Summary: “Would you like to be my partner?” the woman asked. “I believe Dedicate Brook said we were to start with introductions.”I would rather run through a field of poison ivy, Niva thought.I would rather run through a field of poison ivy buck-naked, Niva thought.I would rather run through a field of poison ivy buck-naked in the middle of Hearth Moon chased by wolves, Niva thought.“I—er—yes,” Niva said.





	Four Times Niva Hated Everyone and Everything (And One Time She Didn't)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laurea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurea/gifts).



> For the purposes of this fic, Rosethorn and Crane both went to Lightbridge before coming to Winding Circle; Lark joined the temple as a novice the same time they did.
> 
> Happy Yuletide! This was a lot of fun to write, and I hope it's fun to read. :)

**1.**

“And now,” the Water Dedicate chirruped, “it’s time for ice breakers!”

Niva leveled the full extent of her glare at the initiate—she hadn’t bothered to learn her name, and now would make a point of _never_ learning her name—and was pleased to see her wither like a beanstalk in Mead Moon.

Next to her, Issa snickered; she rewarded him with a questioning frown.

“I haven’t seen you look like that since Professor Thornsun forced you to help teach her introductory thermonatics class,” he drawled, idly playing with one of the white sleeves of his robe.

This earned him a glare too. There were plenty of glares to go around. In fact, there were enough glares for _everyone._

“Is that linen too scratchy for your lordship?” Niva demanded. “Shall we send for the tailors and their finest silks? I know it’s not customary for novices to be garbed like emperors, but I’m certain we can make an exception in your case.”

Issa raised both hands in languid, wrist-flopping submission, and the woman seated on the other side of him let out an audible laugh. Incensed that someone had the audacity to listen in on their conversation, Niva leaned around Issa to give this stranger a piece of her mind--

and then, staring into hazel eyes crinkled with unmistakable good humor, found herself quite tongue-tied for the first time she could remember.

“Hello,” the woman said warmly, her voice soft and musical.  

“Hi,” Niva said, nearly tripping over the single syllable.

“Would you like to be my partner?” the woman asked. “I believe Dedicate Brook said we were to start with introductions.” 

 _I would rather run through a field of poison ivy,_ Niva thought.

 _I would rather run through a field of poison ivy buck-naked,_ Niva thought.

 _I would rather run through a field of poison ivy buck-naked in the middle of Hearth Moon chased by_ wolves, Niva thought.

“I—er—yes,” Niva said.

She could _feel_ Issa’s confusion slowly transform into unmitigated glee, but couldn’t look away from those eyes long enough to put him back in his place.

“Wonderful,” the woman said, breaking out into a smile that made Niva want to think in _metaphors_ , what was _happening._ “Would you like to sit next to me?”

“I—er—sure,” Niva said. Issa let out a highly undignified hoot, and she could feel her cheeks burn.

She got up and walked to her doom, but took solace in kicking Issa on the way over.

  

**2.**

Of course _she_ was in _her_ garden. 

Niva would not call herself a shy woman. As such, she managed to utterly astonish herself when, seeing the woman sitting on the bench, she tried to turn and sneak out the gate unnoticed.

Apparently, Niva could not call herself a stealthy woman, either.

“Hello,” the woman said. Niva frowned: something sounded off about her usually even voice. “Is this your garden?”

“Not really,” Niva admitted, never one for small talk but walking closer regardless.

The woman smiled, though Niva thought she looked a little pale underneath her tan. “Of course. Novices probably don’t get gardens. It—“ she coughed, and Niva was taken aback at the pure panic that flashed across her face. She fought to draw in air, hold it, release it in a pattern similar to the meditation that they all had been learning, though those breathing exercises usually didn’t make people break out into a sweat. Nevertheless, it seemed to help, and the other woman seemed determined to continue the conversation. “It feels like you.”

Like a moth to the flame, Niva found herself sitting next to her on the sun-warmed bench.

“It’s my favorite,” Niva admitted, surprise—how did she know what Niva’s magic _felt_ like?—making the sentence curter than she had intended. 

The other woman smiled. It looked like it cost her something.

“I thought as much. I thought—“ 

But Niva never did learn what she thought, as the sentence was cut off by another coughing fit. This one, however, didn’t seem to end; Niva stared in horror as the woman’s lips slowly began to turn blue. 

“I’ll—I’ll get help,” Niva said, lurching to her feet, an alarm blaring through her veins. “I’ll find help—”

“No,” the other woman gasped, her wide eyes reflecting Niva’s fear. Her hand reached out, grabbed Niva’s arm, slid down to lock into a white-knuckled bracelet around her wrist. “Please—don’t leave me.”

And so Niva couldn’t move—could only hold onto the other woman’s long, strong fingers, could only tremble in time with her desperate wheezes, could only yell and yell and hope and pray that someone would hear.

 

**3.**

Niva swapped shifts with another novice so she didn’t have to go near that garden for a while.

She wasn’t hiding, no matter what Issa said—well, what he would’ve said if she had told him, which she certainly hadn’t. She was _thinking_. 

It took her about a week to figure out what she wanted to do, and another week or two to come up with the right recipe.

After that, it was pretty simple: after some careful eavesdropping and observation, she went to the woman she had determined to be the best healer in Winding Circle. She explained what she wanted—“And _I_ want to do it,” she said, eyes flashing—and was somewhat surprised when Healer Moonstream acquiesced, walking her through the steps without as much as a follow-up question.

When she finally went back to the garden, however, the woman wasn’t there.

After some completely unjustifiable terror—the last time she had seen her was when she was sleeping in the infirmary, yes, but the healer in charge had said she would be _perfectly all right_ —she asked around and was directed to the looms.

Which probably, she thought, trotting off down the path with a frown creasing her forehead, was what had set off her asthma in the first place: dust from the wool, dust from the machines, and more dust for good measure.

Sure enough, when she found the woman in the loud, shuddering room, she was wearing a mask over her mouth and nose. When they went outside and she took the mask off, she was pale and her eyes were bloodshot.

Niva glared.

“Hello to you too,” the woman said dryly.

“Here,” Niva said, thrusting the jar into her hands. The woman raised an eyebrow and opened it, revealing the yellow salve inside.

“For your breathing,” Niva said curtly. “I know you couldn’t use the one the healers here make ‘cause you’re allergic to ginger, but they’re idiots. Echinacea and honey is a perfectly good alternative.” The other woman’s face was frustratingly blank as she took some of the salve and dabbed it on under her nose. 

“And on your neck,” said Niva, touching her own pulse points to demonstrate. The other woman obliged and took a cautious breath of air—then another, and another, more full and confident each time. Niva watched with a crafter’s satisfaction as color flooded back into her cheeks.  

“Thank you,” the woman said fervently, her eyes shining with gratitude. “This—this is amazing.”

Niva looked at her, her mind swirling with pride and embarrassment and anger and something else she couldn’t quite name—

Niva looked at her, and she fled.

 

**4.**

_“Well,” Issa said, a smirk curling around his lips, “maybe I’m just better.”_

_And she couldn’t punch him in his smug mouth—couldn’t ask him for help, either. She could only glare at him in impotent fury, spin on her heel, and stalk out of the room, words lodged and festering in her throat._

“Are we due for some heavy rains today?”

Niva was pulled out of the small, focused world of gardening with a jarring lurch. Well, as jarring as a lurch could be when it was brought about by such a quietly unobtrusive voice.

She looked up, fully prepared to savage whoever was so _bloody_ bad at reading the room—garden—whatever.

It was her; of course it was.

“I’m sorry?” Niva asked, poison dying on her lips.

The woman smiled down at her, eyes wrinkling along well-used laugh lines.

“It looks like there should be a storm cloud above your head.”

And if getting interrupted didn’t bring about doom and destruction, this _certainly_ should’ve leveled the garden that Niva was working so hard to de-weed. Instead, she just said:

“Tomatoes.”

“Beg pardon?” the other woman asked.

“Tomatoes,” Niva said. Several sproutlings clustered near her hands and bare feet, providing her with sun-warmed support. She smiled tremblingly down at them, even though she knew she was going to have to prune them back into place later.

“I can’t—I can’t grow them, can’t get them to stay where they need to stay in order to grow properly, even though they’re the damned _easiest_ vegetable to maintain. They just—“ she sighed, biting her lip. It was hard to admit. “They just don’t _like_ me.”

“I see,” the other woman said gravely, though she couldn’t possibly. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

And, amazingly enough, she did.

 

**5.**

“Good morning, Niva.”

She rocked back on her heels and grumpily squinted at where the other woman stood, framed in a gods-damned _halo_ of sunlight.

Apparently, getting interrupted in her work and not murdering anyone as a result was becoming a happy new tradition.

“Hello,” Niva allowed.

“I’ve been thinking,” the woman said, “about your vine problem.” 

 _Have you really_ , Niva thought.

 _Have you, really?_ Niva thought.

“Oh,” Niva said.

“Well,” the woman said, “I’ve a bit of thread magic—”

“A bit,” Niva said dryly. The woman did some sort of modest hand wave, brushing off the fact that she’d probably become a _great mage_ while Niva was still a _novice_ who couldn’t even get her _tomatoes_ to grow right.

“—and I’ve been working on my embroidery—”

“Embroidery?” Niva asked blankly.

“They teach us all kinds of threadwork,” the woman said earnestly. “We’ve got knitting next moon.”  

“I see,” Niva said. 

“Anyway, there’s a style that—well, obviously vines aren’t thread, but there’s this modified stitch—”

She rattled off an explanation, but Niva wasn’t listening. She was watching the woman’s eyes, bright as she talked about the subject she loved; she was watching her lips, and the quirk of her smile, and the way her curls bounced in time with the graceful sweep of her fingers.

“I see,” Niva said.

“Do you think it’s worth a shot?” the other woman asked. Niva was pleased to note that she looked faintly poleaxed when Niva favored her with a bright, wide grin. 

“I do,” Niva said. “The gods-cursed tomato plants are that way.” 

* 

Niva pushed the frame of the cage; the plants stayed tightly bound to it. She brushed a finger across one rough-soft tendril and luxuriated in the sound of happy tomato crooning, the feeling of a plant that knew it was perfectly placed to grow and grow and grow. 

“You’re a _genius_ ,” Niva whispered. To her delight, the other woman blushed. 

“It’s nothing,” she protested. “I just wanted to help.”

“A genius,” Niva repeated, more loudly this time. Before she quite knew what she was doing, bolstered by a current of joy, she had turned from the plant and seized those talented long brown fingers with her own. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, these are the hands of a maestro.”

“Stop,” she said, laughing, and Niva was delighted to see her golden-brown skin flush even further.

Of course, Niva was almost certainly blushing too. Her stomach lurched with a sudden thrill when she realized that their fingers had somehow interlocked.

“Should I stop?” Niva asked, staring down at their clasped hands. She almost didn’t recognize her voice: it was soft and husky, hitching with threads catching on thorns. “I can stop.” 

“No,” the other woman said. Something in her tone snapped Niva’s eyes back to her face; something in her eyes made her lose her breath, just for a moment. “Please don’t.”

And it was like—well.

Niva had always hated flowery language. Flowers didn’t deserve to have their good name besmirched with all that minstrel-whining, girlie-swooning _claptrap_.

But, as she leaned up to catch the taller woman’s mouth with her own—and as she felt the kiss returned—she thought she finally understood how flowers felt when they opened up in the sunlight.

  
  
  


 


End file.
